ABBY ENDED UP STAYING AWAY from work for the whole week. As for the court case she’d been concerned about, the DA and the defense attorney had worked out a last-minute plea, so that was one thing she could remove from her plate. By Sunday, her last day home, Abby was still having nightmares and wondered if she was foolish to rush back to work. During their last conversation on Friday, Dr. Collins, the police psychologist, had suggested she take an additional week off.

“I know that you witnessed a suicide several months ago. You were not required to come talk to me and you didn’t, but that was a traumatic event. This second incident occurring in such close proximity is problematic. You have nothing to prove. There is no stigma in saying you just need a little more time to process events.”

In the end, though, she didn’t heed his advice. Collins was happy with Abby’s attitude and the support groups in her life. He suggested she spend time in church, or with the people she played volleyball with, and call him if she had any issues. He also gave her a list of official help groups if she felt she needed that.

While working hard to assure herself, she convinced him she could function. He signed off on her return to work, but her universe felt out of sync, like when you watch a video and the words don’t match the lip movement. She still had a grip on normal, but it was far from a firm grip.

The case against Javon Curtis in the murder of ten-year-old Adonna Joiner was strong. But by the end of the week, Abby had heard that while Curtis had made incriminating statements to both Bill and Abby the day he was arrested, once he’d been arraigned and lawyered up, he’d decided to plead not guilty. The lawyer requested a psych exam for Curtis. A trial was a long while away. Abby knew that the inevitable court battle could dredge everything up all over again, but she had time to prepare. This odd, off-balance feeling couldn’t last forever, could it?

Protests over the shooting had grown. It bothered Abby when she saw a news report showing the sign-carrying, chanting mob. They wanted her badge without due process. But Abby’s union rep had been as supportive as Collins. “You’re in policy,” he’d said. “By the book. Ignore the media circus and take care of yourself.” Abby knew he was right and tried to take his advice. Joiner had fired twice, thankfully both bullets impacting the roof fascia, bare inches above their heads, before her bullets stopped him. She had no obligation to let herself or her partner be shot. But that didn’t stop Abby from continuing to second-guess herself. And tomorrow, thirty-five-year-old Clayton Joiner would be laid to rest next to his daughter.

In her nightmares, Abby relived the shooting over and over. It all happened so fast. Her first shooting and she hadn’t killed a violent criminal; she’d killed a grieving father.

“I would have done the same thing,” Bill told her. He’d had his hands on the suspect and could not draw his weapon fast enough. “Joiner could have easily shot one or both of us. I’m glad you reacted so quickly and only sorry that Joiner tried to take the law into his own hands.”

Even the local police beat reporter, Walter Gunther, had called her and, in his cigarette-roughened voice, told her not to be too hard on herself. It was a tough situation, a choice no cop should ever have to face, and he was glad she and Bill weren’t hurt.

Abby knew Bill and Gunther told the truth, perceived it in her head, but in her heart she ached. She understood Joiner, recognized the pain and loss that had driven him to do what he did, and wished with all her heart the outcome could have been different. He’d waited three long months to discover that his daughter’s killer lived next door and called himself “friend.”

The only conversation she’d had with anyone that helped a bit was the brief one she’d had with Luke Murphy, the day he and Woody had left for Idaho. She’d called to thank his mother for the dinner and got Luke as he was putting his stuff together for the trip. The PI seemed to understand her on every level.

“I was involved in a lot of firefights in Iraq; it was war. But one engagement that sticks with me was when a young kid rushed us. He had a bomb vest on. If he’d reached my position, he would have taken out my whole team. I did what I had to do, and you did what you had to do.”

They’d spoken only a few minutes. Abby wanted to talk more, but the wanting of more time with Luke left a cloud of guilt over her heart.

Now, though time was supposed to heal all wounds, she felt as if she were still sleepwalking. She fed Bandit, started a pot of coffee, and walked outside to pick up the newspaper. Ethan always teased her about her newspaper subscription.

“Everything is online quicker than on the pages of a newspaper,” he said often.

“Maybe, but I like spreading the paper out while I drink my morning coffee.”

Today she might agree with him. The only story that had kicked her and Clayton Joiner off the front page was the headline announcing something she knew was coming, but it nonetheless smacked her between the eyes.

Governor Rollins Officially Tosses His Hat in the Ring

She scanned the story about Rollins’s announcement that he was running for a senate seat. It recapped how the governor had bounced back after some bad press related to a cold case, the most famous cold case in Long Beach history, the Triple Seven murders. The story regurgitated how the governor’s personal secretary, Gavin Kent, had partially confessed to committing a twenty-seven-year-old murder and then taken his own life. The murky details of the cold case and the stain of Kent’s confession had failed to impact the governor and his plans in the least. Abby knew it was likely that the popular governor would be elected to the senate, and that twisted in her gut along with the festering guilt over Joiner.

I could have done without seeing this story, whether in print or online, she thought as she folded the paper and walked outside the house to toss it into the recycle bin.

It was Abby’s mother Kent had confessed to killing all those years ago, when Abby was only six years old. Left unanswered was why, and what had happened to her father. Abby had always believed he’d died next to her mother. But a wild theory thrown out by George Sanders, a man in custody for an unrelated murder, had given her a reason to suspect he could have survived. Abby suspected that the governor and his wife were somehow involved with the crime, but so many years later, the lack of proof forced her to back off, try to put everything behind her, and trust God that the guilty would be dealt with, if not in this life, then in the next.

If only Clayton Joiner had been able to do that —trust God and the justice system.

Abby went back inside to poach some eggs. Ethan would arrive to take her to church in a couple of hours and she wanted to be ready. Ever since that first uncomfortable day, when she had avoided speaking with him, Ethan had become extremely helpful. He’d prayed with and for her often and had just been there for her in a way she’d never felt him be there before. A few months ago they’d canceled a planned wedding date because differences in their individual visions for the future had become glaring. Before the shooting, Abby had begun to think it was over, that they’d never recover and reset a wedding date.

But now she wasn’t sure about anything, much less their future.

Ethan was a world traveler, a missionary, and he’d been trying to persuade Abby that the impact they could have in the world as a missionary couple was worth any sacrifice either could make. Initially Abby had bristled that she would be the only one who would have to sacrifice her career and the life in Long Beach she’d come to love.

But the shooting changed a lot. For the first time in her career, Abby felt lost, uncertain. Was Ethan right? Should she quit and follow him?

Abby sat down with her eggs, toast, and coffee. She bowed her head. Prayer did not come easily these days for reasons she could not fathom. Several seconds passed before any words came to mind, and even then, the prayer was brief and to the point.

“Lord, I want to be where you want me. I just don’t know where that is anymore. Please help me, and bless this meal. Amen.”